


Haven

by Imagine_Darksiders



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Apocalypse, Children, End of the World, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Giants, Humans are cute, Interspecies Relationship(s), Jones/Reader platonic, Overprotective, Size Difference, Teacher Reader, Ulthane has a lot of guilt to deal with okay?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 20:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17008689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagine_Darksiders/pseuds/Imagine_Darksiders
Summary: Whilst supervising a school trip to a museum, you suddenly find yourself unwittingly responsible for the lives of five children when a maelstrom of ferocious monsters fall out of the sky and start attacking everyone in sight.---Trapped in a vault, running low on food, water and hope, you have a decision to make.Stay inside where it's safe, or leave and try to find help.Help does come, of course.Just not in the form you'd expected.. . . .





	1. Lost hope.

“Can anyone tell me the name of  _this_  dinosaur?”

It’s safe to say that school trips into the bustling city are always a hotly anticipated, end-of-term treat for the year threes of Bracklinn Primary. Even an outing to a natural history museum excites them beyond that which might be considered necessary, if only because it meant they could miss a whole day of classes. 

The children, all aged seven or eight, gather in front of a friendly, chipper tour guide and crane their necks back to look up, and up and up, gaping at what could quite possibly be the largest skeleton they’ve ever seen. Standing behind the little group, you’re inclined to share in their astonishment.

It certainly is a whopper. 

The city museum’s latest exhibit may still have miles and miles of scaffolding holding it upright, but that doesn’t take away from its magnificence.

“Yeah!  _I_ know!”

A young girl, barely taller than your hip, bounces eagerly on her toes, holding an arm up in the air as if her life depends upon it.

Smiling patiently, the tour guide barely has the time to point at her before she blurts out, “A tyrannosaurus Rex!”

There’s a chorus of ’ _duh’s_ ’ and ’ _oh yeahs_!’ from the rest of her classmates, each easily identifiable by their fluorescent orange jackets that almost entirely cover their school uniforms. Standing close behind the small group of around ten kids, you thank your lucky stars that  _you_  weren’t required to wear one. 

“Absolutely spot on,” the guide claps his hands together and launches into a well-practiced spiel regarding the exhibit as he slowly traipses around the base, swiftly followed by a gaggle of enraptured children.

At the very back, you trail along, one sharp eye trained on the kids and the other on their  _actual_  teacher, who’s lounging on a wooden bench nearby, half asleep. You frown at her, though she’s hardly paying attention on the  _class_ , let alone your expression.   
When dull old Ms. Davies the history teacher asked for the school’s art technician to help her out by tagging along on a field trip, you’d assumed there’d be an equal distribution of duties.  **Not**  that you’d be expected to handle all of the kids by yourself whilst she puts her feet up whenever there’s a spare moment. It isn’t as though you particularly mind though. The children are relatively well behaved, if a little prone to wander. What’s more, they positively  _adore_  you. Although that’s probably more down to the fact that you don’t issue homework, nor are you particularly inclined to lose your temper with them. Besides, unlike Ms. Davies, you actually  _like_  them.   
Kids tend to pick up on little details like that.

Still, it would be nice to know that if something went wrong, the responsibility wouldn’t fall  _entirely_  on your shoulders because you had to take your eyes off one child to tend to another.

Sighing quietly, you shake your head and check the time on your screen. 3:45pm. Placing the phone back in your pocket, you clear your throat softly and catch the tour guide’s eye, giving him a discreet nod.

You’d need to wrap this up. The minibus would be arriving soon.

Luckily, he seems to understand the gesture, for he flashes you a charming wink and asks the kids if they have any questions.

An abrupt tug on the hem of your jumper gives you a start and you look down to find Archie - a quiet boy wearing thick-rimmed glasses - pulling at your clothes and pointing towards a sign behind the rex’s leg. 

Following his finger, you grin when you see what he’s showing you.

Written clearly in bold, white letters across the black sign, are the words ’ _Gift Shop, this way._ ’

“I’m sure we can squeeze in a quick detour to the shop,” you tell him, happy to see his lips part in a bright, gap-toothed smile. Such an expression rarely crosses his face anymore, not after his father died a year prior. You don’t know the details, nor did you think it appropriate to ask. All you know, is that he’d once been a notorious ‘class clown’, now though, he’ll barely raise his hand to answer a simple question. The mop of curly, blonde hair bounces animatedly as Archie spins around to refocus his attention on the dinosaur, staring up at its teeth with round, bespectacled eyes warmer than the richest honey. 

“Alright,” the guide exclaims, “I think that’s it for today. Your teacher looks anxious to split.”

The kids turn to look at you when you let out a short, bemused laugh, interjecting, “Oh, I’m just an art tech.” 

Raising a brow, he smiles. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference  _being_  our salaries,” a voice rings out, shrill and demanding.

You have to fight down the urge to roll your eyes as Ms. Davies approaches, hands in their usual place astride her narrow hips. For a woman in her mid forties, you’d think she would know a little something about tact. She stops a little too close to one of the girls - Kitty - who stumbles backwards and collides with your legs. She turns her big, hazel eyes on you and mutters a quick apology which you wave away with a dismissive hand. 

“ _And_  our qualifications…” Davies continues quietly, mostly to herself.

Before you have the time to roll your eyes at her typically bolshie behaviour, she raises her voice and holds a clipboard aloft, barking, “Right! Roll call!” And at that, she begins to list off the children’s’ names, so you take the opportunity to sidle around towards the guide.

“Hey, thanks for the tour,” you mutter, holding out a hand.

Grinning, he accepts it easily and nods. “Hey, no problem. They’re one of the most well-behaved groups we’ve had in a while. But did  _you_  find it as riveting as they did?”

“Well…” You shrug. “It was better than cleaning paintbrushes all day.”

The two of you share an amicable laugh until you’re interrupted by Ms. Davies harshly clearing her throat. “If you’re quite ready,” she grumbles, “The minibus will be waiting in the car park. Come along.”

The guide has to stifle a chuckle when, all of a sudden, she’s met with a cacophony of disappointed squawks from each of the kids.

“But what about the  _gift_  shop!?” A spanish girl – Lucia – stomps her foot.

“Yeah!” Several classmates back up their friend and stare imploringly between you and their teacher, though when they decided that  _you_  had authority in this matter is a mystery. Ms. Davies looks as though she might spontaneously combust at the noisy protestations, but you decide to help sway her by saying as casually as possible, “The bus actually isn’t due for another fifteen minutes. Surely they can just have a  _look_?”

If looks could kill.

Eyeballing you coldly, she snaps, “Gift shops are a waste of their parents’ money.”

You very nearly groan aloud, feeling the eyes of ten, hopeful children boring into the side of your head. “ _Ten_  minutes? Come on, it’ll be better than having them stand in a car-park getting all fidgety and restless.”

At that, she actually seems to be reconsidering and you just know you’ve got her. If there’s one thing Ms Davies despises more than children, it’s children who can’t stand still. How on Earth she ever got to be a teacher is  _another_  mystery you’ve yet to solve.

After another few moments of tapping a nail against her leather handbag, she opens her mouth to speak…

…When all of a sudden, an earth-shattering ’ ** _BOOM_**!’ rips everyone’s feet out from underneath them. 

Crashing to the ground with a startled yelp, you scramble to get upright again, eyes darting over each of the kids in turn, a high-pitched hum screeching in your ears.

Pushing through the dazed confusion, you manage to grind out between clenched teeth, “Is – Is everybody okay?”

Sobs, whimpers and a few ’ _no’s_!’ reach you, but they’re all moving, and therefore, not dead.

The tour guide had fallen right next to you and when you push yourself back onto unsteady legs, you grab his arm and help him up. “What the  _hell_  was that?!” he gasps.

Shaking your head and lifting Lucia and Kitty to their feet, along with a few of the others, you shakily reply, “I-I don’t know….Earthquake, maybe?” 

Somewhere beyond the museum doors, there are several more, thunderous explosions, followed by the sounds of screeching car tyres, metal screeching on metal and the petrified screams of a thousand people. The slew of strange noises draws the attention of every guest in the museum.   
Still sitting down with a hand on her head Ms. Davies watches you lift the last of the kids to their feet and brush down their clothes. “T-terrorists!” she all but screeches, “It  _has_  to be terrorists!”

You glance at her, then to a nearby window and motion for the class to stay close to their teacher. Swallowing down a thick lump, you carefully creep over to it, the tour guide sticking close to your heels.

“Doesn’t this museum have guards?!” Ms. Davies shrieks behind you, “Where are the damn guards!? Get out there and start shooting!”

As if on cue, a man and women clad in black uniforms burst through a door at the very back of the room and rush towards the museum’s large entrance, taking up positions behind two, wooden pillars on either side. Upon reaching the window, you jump, hearing a maelstrom of gunfire suddenly erupt above the telltale sounds of panic.

Fingers quivering, you grip the sill and pull yourself up to peep over the edge, eyes flicking too and fro across the square outside….

….Like a boulder lobbed into a shallow pond, your heart plummets down through your shoes, disappearing into the marble floor.

For a long moment, your brain doesn’t quite register what’s happening, but the guide popping up next to you and exclaiming in a sharp hiss, “What. The.  _Fuck_!?” confirms that you haven’t inexplicably gone mad.

“What is it!?” a woman cowering behind the information desk demands fearfully. “Who’s out there!?”

“I….I…” The words stick in your throat like glue. How in the hell are you supposed to describe the chaos that’s happening just beyond the museum walls?

How can you say without sounding like a lunatic that there are….. _monsters_  outside in the square, pulling themselves from smouldering craters and spilling out of streets and buildings. There are big ones, bigger than  _elephants_ , wielding fists like battering rams that pummel at roofs of cars before lifting them high over their heads – terrified passengers still inside – and hurling them through the air as though they weigh nothing. 

You blink dumbly and tear your eyes off the larger monsters to observe as dozens of smaller, spindly ones hurtle after civilians and brutally lay into people who – like you - are still trapped in a stupor. Those too shocked to run are swiftly put down by claws, teeth, strange blades covered in deadly barbs. It’s like watching cattle go to slaughter.

Blood flows. Screams rend the air and people are….people are  _dying_! In  _terrible_  ways. It isn’t even morbid curiosity that keeps you watching. Your muscles seem to have simply locked up, rendering you immobile, as though trapped in a nightmare.  _‘Because this **is** a nightmare,_’ you try to convince yourself as you watch a green creature pounce upon the back of an older gentleman and bite down on the back of his neck.  _‘It has to be..’_

Very dimly, you’re aware of a hand on your shoulder and somebody inside shouting, “Hey!”

Sense rushes back sharper than a slap to the face as you suddenly find yourself spinning around and staring into the wide, horrified eyes of the tour guide. “Hey! Y-you see ‘em too right!?” His nails dig painfully into your shoulders  and with the pain, comes the anchor to reality. Comprehending that you’re awake and this isn’t some twisted, fever dream, sends chilling, slimy panic slithering up from the depths of your stomach and clinging to your lungs.

Suddenly, breathing feels extremely difficult.

“I-I need to know you see 'em too!” the guide continues to stammer, frightened tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. “I’m not imagining those…those things!?”

Any coherent thought still has yet to find its way back to you and you open your mouth, closing it again seconds later, not unlike a confused goldfish, until someone answers for you. “You’re not imagining them kid…” An older woman, mid fifties, mousy-blonde hair and a black, leather jacket has her eyes trained out of the window a few rows down from yours. Slowly, her gaze turns to pass over the people inside. “I see them too.”

Deathly quiet, everyone shares a moment of dawning horror. In a shaking voice, another man ventures forwards, squeaking, “What do you see? What the  _Hell_  is out there!?”

One of the guards, clutching his gun close and peering through the glass doors is shaking his head and looks to his partner on the opposite side. “Maybe it’s….a chemical attack?”

She lifts her shoulders in a shrug, training her careful stare on his face. “I – I don’t know. Hallucinogenics?  _Really_? Seems unlikely.”

At that moment, their mouths clamp shut when a shadow passes across the door, stretching along the marble as if pushed inside by the late afternoon sun.

Gunshots and hideous, garbled roars shatter the air outside, implying that the bobbies have finally started to retaliate.

That doesn’t help the people in the museum though.

Your eyes are fixed on the shape through the glass doors. Deep indigo skin stretches taut over a hulking, hunched up brute of a monster with four, bulging arms and two, stumpy hind legs. It stands outside, paused misstep as it lifts its head and you watch a long, garish purple tongue slip between razor sharp teeth and writhe about, tasting the air.

Nobody in the museum dare exhale.

There are no visible eyes, or at least none that are its own. Instead of a face, the thing’s entire head is made up of about a dozen human  _skulls_ , grinning out at you from every conceivable angle. A few of them still have dead, greying eyeballs in their sockets.

The urge to vomit  creeps up on you, but the guide beats you to it. He lurches away from you and empties the contents of his stomach all over the floor and his shoes.

The monstrosity drops its jaw wide and unleashes a bellowing roar so deep and resonant, the tyrannosaurus skeleton rattles violently, shaking in it’s struts.

Finally, everyone seems to find their collective voice.

“I’ve done some hard drugs in my time!” Ms. Davies screeches unexpectedly, “and  _that_  is  ** _not_**  a hallucination!”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, you might’ve burst out into laughter at the absurd notion of stern, sour-faced Ms. Davies doing hard drugs.

Suddenly, the creature lifts two of its hands and curls them into massive fists just as the guards by the door raise their guns and open fire. Bullets explode from their chambers and thud dully into the monster’s softer underbelly but ricochet off its impossibly hard head. It doesn’t even seem to feel the impact.

A series of petrified shrieks permeate your eardrums, punching above the roars and gunshots.

Your head snaps towards the high pitched screams and your heart seizes, wrenching you entirely from your stupor.

“ _KIDS_!” you screech.

The monsters outside, the one in the doorway….They’re all forgotten. Irrelevant in comparison to an age-old instinct raging inside you.

Sobered, you skid to a atop and grab Archie’s rucksack and Lucia’s hand, hauling them away from Ms Davies. “We have to hide.  _Now_!”

On your opposite side, three more kids leave their teacher’ to stand with you but when the others try to follow, her hands shoot out and snatch them back. “Hide!?” she shrieks above the din, “We need to evacuate!” Jabbing a finger down to the end of the enormous room, she indicates a fire exit, through which several other people have already flown the coop. You gape, first at the doors, then at her.

“Are you insane!? You want to go outside!? With more those  _things_!”

“The – the  _police_  are out there!”

“The  _police?_!” you scoff, throwing an arm towards the behemoth still trying to stuff it’s fat, swollen body through the door frame, “That thing has twelve bullets it in and it hasn’t even flinched! The police can’t help us!” A shout rings out loudly in the musuem, and you glance back at the door, stomach churning as a guard is brutally flattened beneath a wayward fist. ‘ _God, I hope none of the kids saw that!_ ’ Frantically, you look around, spotting the tour guide try to crawl between the Rex’s legs. Striding over to him, you let go of Archie’s bag and grab the man, pulling him upright and spinning him around to face you.

“VAULT!” you bellow, jostling the guide who desperately tries to pry your hands off his lapels.

The five children behind you are all crying and whimpering softly, but they’re still trying to convince their classmates to stay inside with them instead of leaving with Ms. Davies. Though her vice-like grip and clipped tone keeps them shuffling reluctantly towards the fire exit.

Behind you, one of the windows shatters inwards and some, insectoid nightmare begins scrabbling through the gap, screeching like a banshee. “This is a  _museum_!” you wheeze, “WHERE’S THE GODDAMN VAULT?” It’s a long shot, but it’s the best plan you can think of.

Eyes bulging, he points a shaking finger at a pair of tall, wooden doors in the far corner, directly adjacent to the fire escape. “D-down there! I…I  _think_  it’s open-”

A bloodcurdling scream from the remaining guard is cut off by a wet gurgle and a snap. Yelping, the guide tears himself out of your grip and flees after Ms Davies and the children she’s commandeered, easily overtaking them with his longer strife. Letting out a frustrated shout, you fling Archie, Lucia and the other three ahead of you, shoving them none to gently towards the doors that supposedly lead to the vault. “Go!  _Run_!”

Slowly,  _much_  too slowly for your liking, they scramble for it with you bringing up the rear, keeping yourself firmly planted between them and the two monsters behind you.

As you make your mad dash, from the corner of your eye, you spot Ms. Davies and her half of the class running full tilt for the exit. She’s got one of their arms clutched in her hand, yanking the poor kid along as she darts ahead of the group, relying on  _them_  to keep up with  _her_.

Although the children  _do_  manage to maintain their teacher’s pace, the bug-like creature has selected its target, and it’s bounding closer and closer to the child at the back, chittering triumphantly as its maw stretches wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. The boy in question chances a look back and sees the gruesome sight, his eyes bursting wide open and he screams.

“DAVIES!” you try to warn her, “ _Help_  Timothy!”

To your shock, she  _ignores_  you, reaching the door and all but throwing herself through it just as you reach yours.

Archie, Lucia, Kitty, Sam and Ashleigh thunder through, but you pause, fingers braced on the doorframe as you prepare to charge across the room and intercept the monster before it can get its beastly claws into one of the kids. However, before you can move, Timothy puts on an unexpected burst of speed and shrugs out of his high vis. Then, in a genius move, he hurls the bright, orange gilet over a shoulder, finding his mark perfectly. It slaps into the beast’s face, getting snagged on sharp scales and flopping like a blanket over it’s six eyes, causing the hideous thing to screech to a halt, howling in rage and frustration.

The hesitation gives Tim precious seconds to slip through the exit and disappear from view. But you can’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet, not when you so ardently believe that Davies just lead those kids  _and_  herself to their prospective dooms.

All of a sudden, Kitty’s face appears in the doorway, her watery, hazel eyes wide open and she shrieks, a finger stabbing at something behind you. Throwing your head over your shoulder, you realise what.

The indigo juggernaut has braced it’s meaty fists on either side of the wall next to the entrance and gives an almighty heaves. As you watch, the thick walls crack and crumble under its strength until, in a shower of dust and fragments of brick, it manages to thrust itself inside.

By the time the beast lifts its head to let out a gut-wrenching howl, you’ve grabbed Kitty under an arm and bolted through the doors.

On the other side, you find all the kids waiting for you; their only authority figure in this mess, the  _one_  person they’ll be relying of from here on out. ‘ _Oh boy_ ,’ you gulp. This was  _not_  how you saw your day going. When you told the headmaster that you wanted to have a more active role in the children’s learning experience, this isn’t  _exactly_  what you’d had in mind. 

Filled with a sense of urgency that only occurs in the direst of straights, you usher your newfound charges down the long corridor, eyes fixated on a small, white door at the very end that has only a flickering, green emergency light to guide you. To your relief, the guide had been right. The door is slightly ajar. 

At your back, the roars, snorts and growls of  _monstrous_  things chase you all the way, so loud, you’re certain you can hot, rancid breath gushing down your neck, though upon glancing back, there’s nothing to be seen. “Everyone inside, now!” They all race through, tripping over themselves  _and_  each other. 

Only when the last child dashes inside do you follow suit, slamming the door shut and praying that the locks will hold…. 

—–

That was three days ago.

Three days since you locked yourself and five children behind six inches of hard, white steel.

No turn handle. No keyhole. Just a blank slab of metal separating you from the monsters outside. The power had gone out mere moments after you made it inside, revealing a noticeable design flaw in the museum’s security system.

This isn’t Fort Knox. They aren’t protecting a mountain of gold bars in here, just a few, dusty old paintings and a sculpture or two that somewhat resemble a greek philosopher. During a power cut,  _ **all**_  power goes out,  _including_  the door lock.

For three days, you’ve been staring at that door. Weaponless, waiting for some hideous monstrosity to claw its way in and kill both you and your charges.

Speaking of whom…

You’ve finally managed to get all five of them to go to sleep. They lay in a tangled heap of limbs and hair in the very corner of the vault, buried beneath their coats and substituting rucksacks for pillows.

You did your best to ration, but they barely had enough food to last an  _afternoon_ , let alone sixty two hours. There isn’t any more food now though, nor any liquid. They’d finished the last drop and crumb yesterday. The children keep asking when they can go home and you want nothing more than to bang your head against a wall and knock yourself out, if only so you could force your brain to rest and  _not_  deal with another child asking what’s going on. There are only so many times you can tell a kid ‘ _I don’t know_ ’ before they start to lose faith in your ability to keep them safe. 

Adrenaline has been your constant companion so far, but there are periods of time where you black out and awaken to find one of the kids patting your face and crying out for you to wake up.

There isn’t any question. Your situation is  _beyond_  bad. It’s a disaster, and even  _that’s_ an understatement. The only things that keep you from breaking down and wailing your guts out are currently asleep in the corner.

Exhausted, you slump forward, raking dirty fingers through your scraggly hair and letting out an exhale, wrought with fear, uncertainty and anguish.

Your phone had died yesterday as well, and with it, your connection to the world outside this museum. Not that there was much to connect with anyway. Every emergency number was engaged, your friends went straight to voicemail and the same went for your parents.

You ended up trying to ring every contact in the address book, including the pizza place down your home street, but to no avail.

For a while, you had enough signal to send messages to every social media platform you knew, telling everyone where you are and that you need help, all the while, the kids huddle around you and stare down at the phone as if it were a lifeline. Though it soon becomes abundantly clear that help isn’t coming any time soon.

Every single forum was flooded with messages from people panicking. Nobody knows what the hell is going on. But whatever it is, there’s one, deeply unsettling fact that can’t be ignored, no matter how much you might want to.

This isn’t just happening here. It’s happening  _everywhere_. Every city, every country, every continent is overrun with murderous, otherworldly creatures.   
As far as you can garner from what little information is available, this is a global phenomenon. 

But then, distressingly, the updates just….stopped coming in.

Millions became thousands, thousands turned to mere hundreds until soon enough, the severs that had struggled so valiantly to host that many users, crashed completely. So you started looking at news sites, then more obscure forum pages. Hours passed with no new information. You kept refreshing the pages until you were down to three percent battery.

The phone case creaked in protest as you squeezed your hand around it, frustrated, scared….defeated.

With nothing else to do, you used the last of the power to leave a voicemail for your parents in the vain hope that they’ve survived this.   
So, standing next to a marble bust of a man who might’ve been Socrates, you watched the children share a packet of crisps between themselves, and you uttered the last words your parents would ever hear from you.

If they were even alive, that is.

“Hey mum….dad. It’s uh….It’s me-” Your jaw clenched suddenly, eyelids crushed together like vices. You refused to cry in front of the kids. Raising your head once again, you exhaled shakily and stared at Socrates’ placid face, focusing on the smooth white curve of his lips to ground yourself. “I’m okay.. _We’re_  okay. I – I’m with some of the class, in a museum vault, of all places! Haha…ha….”

Wayward tears sprang up behind your lashes and you quickly turned to face the wall. “It’s pretty bad - um…yeah. Listen, I love you and I hope you’re okay. God, I wish I knew what to do… I wish I know what’s going on but I - I have no  _idea_  what to tell these kids!…”

You crane your neck back to look at the group and find Archie has removed his glasses to clean them, his little fingers trembling violently.

“… _Tell_  me what to do,” you begged in a whisper down the phone, “Please…Tell me what I’m supposed to  _do_.”

On a whim, you pulled the phone away from your ear and glanced down at its screen.

Dead.

Figures. You’ve no idea how much of that message your parents received, if any.

After the phone died, you moved as if in a daze to the front of the vault, told the kids to get some rest, then sat down in place and stared at the door, half asleep but wide awake.

Which brings you to the present, a jumble of mixed up thoughts running rampant through your brain. In the vault’s darkness, illuminated by a single, green emergency light above the door, you find yourself faced with a dilemma.

Over the last several hours, you’ve boiled your options down to  _two_  choices. The first, remain here with the children and watch them die of dehydration. A terrible plan, really.  
The second,  _leave_  the vault and brave the doubtlessly ravaged world above in the hopes of finding food and water to sustain them for a few more days. Likely you’d die yourself in the process, leaving the children utterly alone and without an adult figure to reassure them that they’d be okay. Then, they’d die regardless.

You have to stuff a few fingers into your mouth and bite down to stop yourself from shouting. This is definitely a  _situation_.

Glaring daggers at the door isn’t getting you anywhere. You have to decide. Maybe if you’re quiet, if you’re quick and careful, you could get out and return before the kids wake up and panic upon seeing you gone. They’re so tired though, so you figure you’ve got at least another hour until they begin to stir. ’ _Alright_.’ The walls press in around you, as if trying to force the decision upon your shoulders. This could go wrong, this could go so  _very_ ,  _badly_  wrong.

Foot tapping rapidly on the hard floor, you exhale long and slow, standing up and staring down the vault door  - your only protection against the monsters outside.

 _'Die in here for sure or take a chance and buy these kids a few more days… Man. Video games made these choices feel so easy_.’

“Courage kiddo,” you whisper – a mantra you’d adopted from a doctor you met years ago. You didn’t even remember his name. Only that before you went under general anaesthetic for a surgery, you’d been terrified. But one stranger in a surgical mask took your hand in his and murmured it, flashing you a wink. A passing comment. Easily forgettably, yet for some reason, it stayed with you, and in frightening times, you repeat it to yourself, as you are now. “Courage kiddo,” You reach out and place a hand on the door. “Courage…” It swings open when you give the metal a firm push, but blessedly, it doesn’t utter a single sound.

A long, dark corridor greets you on the other side, at the end of which is another emergency light, beckoning like an ominous quest-icon. “Courage-…oh, who am I kidding.” You scowl at it.

Taking a final, longing look back at the sleeping children, you can feel your resolve slowly harden, similar to an egg tossed into boiling water. You do not, under any circumstances, consider yourself an authority figure. You’re an art technician, for crying out loud. 

But it doesn’t matter how you see yourself. Only how  _they_  see you. All they’ve been taught is that an adult’s word is law. To them,  _you_  are the answer to all their problems. That kind of responsibility terrifies you, though you can no more ignore it than the furious pounding of your own heart. It isn’t their fault you’re the only barely functioning adult in the vicinity. 

So, without a weapon, without a real plan, hope or prayer, you step out of the ’ _safe_ ’ room and push the door closed behind you. 


	2. Ulthane Blackhammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulthane finally manages to save his first human...

Ulthane Blackhammer has never  _once_  professed to be any kind of hero. He doesn’t  _want_  to be a hero. It isn’t a title that he particularly  _deserves_. What happened to these innocent humans had happened due in no small part to his involvement. No ’ _hero_ ’ would do that to another species.   
Though perhaps not the central antagonist in Earth’s story, he certainly comes close to feeling like one.

And now, sitting at the foot of the maker tree on an overturned automobile, broad, flat nose pinched between his fingers, he’s beginning to understand just how  _much_  his mistake had cost.

The body of a young woman – barely out of adolescence – lays stiff and rigid and  _cold_ across his gigantic palm, one of his thumbs propped beneath her delicate neck.

He had been so,  _so_  close to saving this one.

She was alive when their eyes met across the city square, but there had been a problem.

 _Him_.

The maker’s lips curl upwards into an embittered snarl and he squeezes the bridge of his nose even harder, dark, auburn eyebrows snapping together sharply until they almost meet in the centre of his forrid.

The girl had taken one look at the huge, hammer-wielding man and she froze. Mere seconds was all it took for a wretched demon to leap over the bus she’d stopped beside and slash its talon clean across her throat. The beast met it’s own sticky end beneath the flat head of Ulthane’s hammer a moment too late, crushed like a bug on the pavement.

Huffing with the ferocity of a raging bull, he slammed the hammer down on top of it, again and again, roaring a terrible battle cry that shook the teeth in his own skull, letting out all the frustration that had been building to this point.

It was only after he raised the weapon above his head for the sixth time that he noticed the girl staring up at him, clutching desperately at her throat. She was still alive. And she’d  _watched_  whilst he… _he_ …

Ulthane’s mind slams a wall down around the memory of the face she made before eventually succumbing to her injury.

As if he needed  _another_  reminder of what a monster he is.

Shoulders heaving slowly up and down with a long, drawn-out exhale, Ulthane finally releases his nose and cracks his eyes open to look down at the human.

She wasn’t the first he’d been too slow to save and doubtless, she wouldn’t be the last.

He’d always thought they were such a fascinating little species.

There  _are_  those in Creation who fear humanity’s destructive tendencies but Ulthane has witnessed their creativity and ingenuity firsthand. Now, he fails to see humans as anything other than the tiny visionaries they so clearly are. Besides, he’d defy anybody to name a species that  _doesn’t_  exhibit destructive traits.   
Nobody in the Universe is without sin. Not demons, nor makers.  _Certainly_  not angels either. And to profess sanctity whilst condemning this young species for showing a violent nature every once in a while is not only laughable, it’s downright hypocritical, in his humble opinion.

Humans are so beautiful in their fragility. Charming in their candor.   
And maker’s bones, their  _architecture_!

Call him a hopeless fanatic, but Ulthane can  _still_  recall the first time he found himself in the human country of ‘Iran’, around three hundred years ago, on the hunt for a rare, earthen stone that couldn’t be mined in the maker’s realm.

Old as he is, there’s very little that can make the mighty Ulthane Blackhammer stop and gawk.   
In their own tongue, he heard it named as the 'Masjed-e Jadid-e Abbasi.’ A name as pleasant on the ears as the building was on the eyes. The old maker was  _astounded_  by the craftsmanship and towering gateways on each side of the glorious structure, the trio of enormous domes and the stalactite tile-work…It was so rich in golds and blues, he only wished he’d seen it during the day, but at the time, he dared not stick around and wait for a human to stumble across a starstruck maker.

Humanity was….so small, and lived for such a brief sneeze of time. But what they  _did_ with that time was simply phenomenal…

…and  _he’d_  helped to ensure their premature destruction…

The maker’s attention is back on the girl in a flash, snatched away from his brief interlude of remembering a building that demons have probably reduced to rubble by now.

He’s not a quitter. Not by a long shot. But so  _many_  failures tend to leave one somewhat disheartened.

Ulthane headed straight to Earth the moment he heard that Abaddon’s plan went awry. Of course, he’d been keeping close tabs since he reforged the seals,  _after_  they were destroyed. 

He knew the whole thing was a long shot, he just didn’t know it would all go to shit so _quickly_.

Of course, as soon as a fellow maker, Halvor, caught him trying to dash out of Tri Stone in the dead of night, he knew he wouldn’t be doing so alone. Ulthane reluctantly agreed that his friend could come along, then the two of them picked up Yoana, who was already at the Tree of Life’s portal system. The young, blonde maker – as with  _most_ young makers – had something of a hero complex. That, coupled with an avid fascination for the human race and it was suddenly impossible to persuade her to return home.

Stubborn girl…

In truth, Ulthane is privately grateful to have them with him in this.

Currently, they’re both busying themselves by preparing the maker tree, carving out a sanctuary in it’s colossal trunk as a haven of sorts, to shelter as many humans as  _he_ could save.

The maker pauses, tonguing thoughtfully at one of the fangs protruding from his lower jaw.

“Huh….Haven, eh?” he murmurs softly down to the girl, “Not exactly much of one yet though, is it?”

Naturally, her glassy eyes remain unfocused and trained skyward, staring up past his head. Ulthane’s pointed ears droop ever so slightly.

Close by, demons of various shapes and sizes keep a watchful eye on the giant in their midst. Although the lesser demons are certainly lacking in intelligence, even  _they_  have enough sense to know that a solitary maker is too much of a threat to handle.

Only the very stupid, or the very  _large_  would bother him as he goes about searching for human survivors. Although the flesh in his hand  _does_  carry a delectably appetising aroma on the wind…

Abruptly, Ulthane stamps his heavy boot and snarls at a pair of brassy sloth minions that have slithered a little too close, lured by the promise of fresh meat.

They hiss furiously at him but a quick flash of his gleaming teeth sends them scurrying back to the shadows of a nearby building.

He’d give chase, if only to relieve some of the anger from his soul, but those ones are faster than he is, and weariness settles like a heavy fog over his broad shoulders.

Tiredly, the maker drops his head into a hand and massages at his temples.

All of a sudden, from somewhere not too far away from where he sits, comes the unmistakable roar of a Suffering Beast – a sound so heinous, even it’s fellow demons slink away from it. Under normal circumstances, Ulthane wouldn’t bother tangling with such a creature if he could help it. He’d been knocked around by the hulking brutes enough to know  _not_  to underestimate them. But this time, something else supervenes that haunting bellow. Something that has his ears pricking forwards and his head snapping up, pale blue eyes alert and round as saucers.  

A petrified scream, quieter but infinitely more urgent – the telltale sound of a human in distress. A  _live_  human!

Muttering a swift apology to the girl in his hand, Ulthane takes a brief moment to place her through the open door of the vehicle he’d been sitting on before leaping to his feet, the metal frame beneath him sighing as his weight disappears. The least he could do is make it harder for the demons to have an easy meal.

Snatching up his signature hammer, he swings it over a wide shoulder and lumbers in the direction the scream had come from with all the compulsion of a speeding freight train.

“Come on,” he growls between clenched teeth, “Come on, where are you?” Luckily, it isn’t hard to track the source of the noise, given away by the furious pounding and crashing coming from a nearby building with banners hanging on stone pillars, depicting the bones of some immense creature he doesn’t recognise. He pays the images little mind though and continues up a set of steps, barrelling through a wide hole in the wall that suggested a door had once stood in its place.

He thrusts his impressive bulk through and into the building, having to suck in his gut and hunch his arms at one point, but finally, he emerges with a grunt into a gargantuan room – even by maker standards.

In the very centre, stands the same, monstrous skeleton that’d been shown outside. “By the stone!” Ulthane tips his head back and releases an impressed whistle. “Don’t remember seein’ one of  _those_  on Earth before.”

Another howl snaps him back to the task at hand. His auburn beard bristles around a fierce snarl as he scans the room until eventually, he spots yet  _another_  gaping hole in a wall at the far end, the daylight filtering through it obscured by lingering dust particles. This one had to have been made  _very_  recently then.

Lowering his head, he charges across the slippery marble and skids to a stop just in front of the second hole, squinting through the unsettled dust in search of his quarry. He finds it in no time.

The roar belonged to a Suffering alright. Big, ugly,  _mean_ -looking brute…Not that  _he’s_ one to judge.

Ulthane takes a heavy step out into a large, squared off area of tarmac. Small automobiles are dotted around the site, primarily parked within white, painted boxes. In one corner, there are bigger machines scattered all over the place, some on their sides, others half destroyed. Some even have tooth marks gouged into their bright yellow doors.

The maker recognises instruments of construction when he sees them. Once again, he has to comment the creative little species. Not strong enough to do the really heavy lifting? No problem. They can just  _invent_  a machine to do it for them. Ingenious!

The angels decided that manual labour was beneath them, hence why they enlisted scored of makers to build the White City.  _Lazy birds_.

The demon has its focus centred entirely on what  _seems_  to be a giant, concrete drainage pipe that rolls freely to and fro as it’s jostled by an increasingly frustrated Suffering. It still hasn’t noticed that he’s stepped closer and hefted the hammer into his sturdy grip. No, it’s far too preoccupied with trying to stuff a fat, bulging arm down the pipe’s entrance, that putrid tongue whipping about furiously when its appendage refuses to fit.

Suddenly, a tiny whimper from inside the pipe snatches the bemused smirk off Ulthane’s face.

Instead, his lips curve down and pull apart, sliding over his gums to reveal clenched, bared teeth.

Nostrils flaring wide, ears pinned back against his skull, the maker doesn’t hesitate a minute longer..

With an enraged shout, he bows his head and stampedes towards the Suffering, shoulders dropped in preparation for a vicious ran, At the sound of his loud approach, the demon pauses, extracting its arm from the pipe and swings its skull-encrusted head around mere moments too late to stop itself from getting blindsided. A guttural snort of surprise erupts from its throat when Ulthane uses his bicep like a battering ram, connecting with the demon’s fleshy ribcage.

The sheer strength behind the hit launches all ten thousand pounds worth of monster across the shabby construction site. It’s clawed toes slide on the tarmac for several metres before it has the presence of mind to plant its feet and raise two of its four arms, bracing them on the maker’s deltoids, the thick, blunt talons rupturing his tough hide and drawing forth several droplets of blood.

Jaw stretched wide, spittle flying from a grotesque, purple tongue, the Suffering bellows a fetid objection.

Curling his lips in disgust, Ulthane raises a boot and gives the soft underbelly a devastating kick, knocking the beast away and allowing him the space to pull the hammer off his back.

“Alright you ugly bastard,” he rumbles, planting himself squarely in front of the drainage pipe’s entrance, “How’s about you pick on someone your  _own_  size?”

Apparently, that’s  _precisely_  what it planned to do, for it pounds all four fists into the ground and issues a roar, a challenge.

Unfortunately for this  _particular_  demon, it had unwittingly picked a fight with  _Ulthane_ _Blackhammer_ , who can’t suppress a cocksure grin, cracking his neck and flexing the fingers around his hammer’s leather grip. “Suit yourself.”

His ear flicks back momentarily as a muffled sob echoes out of the pipe behind him. Roused by the duty he’d set out for himself, Ulthane’s jaw sets, his eyes steely and narrowed to slits, ready to kill.  _'Not this time. Not **this**  one_.’

He waits for the demon to come to him, and – predictably - it does, the bones protruding from its back clacking together when it charges, screeching raggedly at the one who denied it a tasty meal. No matter. Maker flesh may not be as sweet or tender as human, but meat is meat and a Suffering is never one to pass up a free meal. Salivating madly, it hurtles forwards…

Just then, with a speed that shouldn’t be feasible, given his immense size, Ulthane lifts his weapon high into the air, the muscles in his arm quivering and straining under its weight.

Somehow, even without any visible eyes, the demon’s bulbous head manages to convey something that resembles shock and it tries desperately to stop in its tracks. But determined aggression and its own heaviness prove a hinderance. The momentum of its charge carries it forward, right beneath the shadow of that legendary hammer. It tries to scrabble backwards, to turn, to strafe, anything! Yet Ulthane is already moving.

 In a herculean display of raw power, he swings his weapon in a downward arch. It’s flat head meets the demon’s skull with a satisfying crunch. The beast’s jaw hits the ground in a flash and then, the rest follows, its swollen body crumpling in a heap at the feet of a stronger opponent. Ulthane needn’t even  _check_  to know that it’s dead. What little brain had been sitting between its ears is now splattered all across the nearby tarmac and his boots. Making a noise in the back of his throat, he lifts the hammer again, grimacing at the sticky mess that comes away with it.

He gives the weapon a few good shakes, ridding it of most of the grey matter before placing it one his back once more, spitting at the fresh corpse. “And  _stay_  down.”

With the main threat neutralised and no other demons crawling out of the rubble to investigate, Ulthane allows himself a second to collect himself, schooling his hard features into as gentle a smile as he can manage before turning slowly, dropping to one knee and bending over to peer down the length of the pipe.  

There, about ten feet from its opening with hands and feet braced firmly against the smooth walls, is the shivering, shadowed form of a human being. In the darkness, he can’t make out many features. But he can tell that it’s alive. Anything else seems irrelevant.

“You alright in there?” he sighs, not even bothering to conceal his palpable relief. The human doesn’t make a peep save for shuffling backwards, further towards the other, open end and away from his looming face.

“Hmm..” Troubled, Ulthane raises his head when another distant yowl travels between buildings, over rooftops and reaches his ears, reminding him that he’s not out of the woods yet.

Time is of the essence to get this human to the relative safety of the maker tree.

The longer he waits, the more at risk it is. And he’ll be damned if he finds a human only to lose it straight away.

Pushing himself onto his feet again, the maker purses his lips and puffs out a rough sigh as he wraps one hand around the side of the pipe. “Yer not gonna like me very much after this,” he warns apologetically, “but I need to get you  _out_  of there.”

Steeling his heart to endure the panicked cries that reach his keen ears, he murmurs another gentle apology and begins to carefully raise the pipe.

—

All the blood in your body turns to ice the moment you feel yourself being lifted up, along with your hiding place. “No, no, no!” you whimper, frantically pressing the flat of your palms against the inner walls. You curse the manufacturers of this pipe though….

They’d polished, buffed and ground the stone down until its smooth as marble, without a single bump or foothold to stuff your fingers into.

Gravity pulls insistently at your legs until – to your mounting horror – you begin to  _slide_  down towards the open end  _and_  the gigantic palm that’s suddenly appeared directly beneath it. 

Why on Earth had you left the kids? Now you’d never get back to them and you didn’t even get far enough to find any water….God, you were so  _stupid_! What made you think you could  _do_  this!?” 

Your nerves abruptly give out when the pipe tips even further and you’re jostled, nails scraping themselves blunt as they scrabble to hold on.

“Don’t make me shake you out,” the monstrous juggernaut rumbles from somewhere overhead, his accent distinctly norse, if you aren’t mistaken.

’ _Then don’t_!’ you want to shriek, but all the running and screaming has hurt your chest and your tongue seems to have fused itself to the roof of your mouth. Fear has stolen away any voice you had left after the three days without food or sleep. You can barely even  _think_  straight.

All of a sudden, a rush of terror makes your already pounding heart stutter as your ears pick up a loud, echoing roar from outside. The pip halts its ascent and the giant gives a concerned hum. ’ _What is_ _ **he**_ _worried about? Something coming to steal his food?_ ’

“Sorry about this, little 'un,” he grunts. Before you can prepare yourself, the pipe gives a sudden lurch and tilts until it’s almost vertical. The violent motion manages to finally dislodge your hands and feet and you cry out, terrified as you tumble down several feet before emerging into the fading daylight and smacking with a grunt right into the waiting hand.

——-

Ulthane’s breath catches in his throat as soon as the little human lands in his palm – warm, not cold. Moving, not still.

Soft hair tickles at his skin as it lets out a tiny groan and pushes itself off its stomach. Almost as though in a trance, the maker brings his free hand up and wriggles his thumb underneath the human’s belly, curling the rest of his fingers over it’s delicate back until he’s holding it in a loose fist.

He brings it up to eye-level, watching with rapt attention whilst it gets its bearings, struggling to raise a floppy head, blinking its eyes open and squinting around, confusion plaguing the fatigue-worn features. When it eventually meets his baby blue gaze for the first time, the corner of Ulthane’s lips twitch upwards in interest.

Dark, bruised circles hang like banners beneath a pair of beguiling eyes that glisten wetly, red veins criss-crossing along the sclera. It had been crying recently.

It’s hair is a dishevelled mess, clothes rumpled and scuffed and there’s a smear of dirt spanning the length of one cheek.

To be quite honest, Ulthane can’t remember the last time he saw something so perfect.

The human flinches, crying out softly when he opens his mouth to speak, giving it a good close-up view of his glinting fangs. “ _Ha_! Look at you!” he laughs breathlessly, “You little  _beauty_ , I could kiss you!”

He’s done it! His first human,  _alive_! Sitting right there in front of him – a veritable symbol of hope!   
Hope that not  _all_  is lost.

Ulthane gives an involuntary, minute flex of his fingers. As soon as he does though, a loud yelp jumps out of the human’s mouth and it scrunches its face up, a sharp intake of breath hissing through clenched teeth.

In an instant, the maker loosens his grip and his bushy eyebrows draw together into a frown.

’ _A fear response? Or pain?_ ’

He pulls the human closer to his face, inspecting it carefully. This one really is a pretty little thing. Elegant in all the ways a maker could never be and dainty as a wildflower - at least compared to him. Although thinking like  _that_  makes him feel like a dirty, old man. Ulthane pulls a face.

Cracking open one eye, the human gasps the moment it realises how near he suddenly is, that tiny chest beneath his fingers rising and falling in rapid succession.

Had he been any good at coming up with comforting words to say, he’d offer some now.

Gruff as he is, he realises that he’s talkative in all the wrong ways.

During a battle, he can hardly keep his mouth  _shut_ , always throwing quips and jibes at whatever he’s fighting. In Tri Stone, only Karn and Alya had mouths bigger than his.

So why now, when faced with tiny, trembling human – a member of the most sociable species in Creation – is he stuck for comething to say?

Swallowing thickly, Ulthane lowers his jaw wide and sucks in a breath, ready to mutter out a quick word or two to soothe the furious hammering of the human’s heart when, without warning, the tiny body stiffens in his grip, fingers clutching hard to his thumb before it’s eyes promptly roll up into its head, which flops backwards shortly afterwards, lolling at an uncomfortable angle over the back of his forefinger.

Cold horror seeps glacially into the maker’s blood and he stares, jaw still hanging open, gormless.

For one, horrible moment, he’s convinced that he’s killed the little creature.

“No,” he rasps, “No, no.  _No_!”

Frantic, he shifts his thumb and presses the pad over the tiny chest, heedless of the improper placement. He knows how sensitive humans can be when touched in the more…..  _intimate_  areas.

He waits with baited breath, concentrating hard. After a few, tense seconds, the maker’s broad shoulders sag and he deflates, unfathomably relieved. The sensation of a minuscule but undeniably  _strong_  heartbeat flutters delicately beneath the pad of his thumb. 

His human  _is_  still alive. Just unconscious. 

 _‘Probably for the best_ ,’ he muses, studying the circles beneath its eyes again, ‘ _Looks exhausted_.’ 

The grim line of his mouth softens a little as he soaks up the dull thumps of its precious life force.   
 _This_  is what he’d vowed to protect.   
This is why he’d left Tri Stone.   
A surge of guilt threatens to keel him over where he stands. He would never have had to leave if he hadn’t agreed to help Azrael and by extension, Abaddon.   
Rumbling softly, he blinks down at the human. Its face, no longer drawn taut with terror, could almost be peaceful, were it not for the slight crease between the brows.   
Curious, Ulthane tilts his head to the side and sniffs, moving his hand so that the human is laying flat and unrestrained on its back.   
With the fingers of his other hand, the maker pinches the flimsy jumper between thumb and forefinger and tentatively pulls it up with a care he wasn’t even aware he  _had_. Moving the jumper reveals an expanse of soft skin on the left hand side. His eyes narrow when he sees that it’s been marred by a blossoming, black and purple bruise spanning the width of the human’s fragile ribs. A heavy blow that would  _definitely_ need tending to, not least to check if any bones are broken. 

Grunting, the surly maker adds a mental note to ask Yoana to dress the wound when he gets back. She has a steadier hand than he does. 

Turning to peer over his shoulder, Ulthane gazes up into the sky at the tall tree branches that poke out over the tops of buildings. Earth’s lonely sun has descended quickly on the horizon, casting long, creeping shadows up and down the streets. 

Tucking the human carefully against his stomach, he releases a pent up sigh and lumbers out of the construction site, eyes and ears primed to spot any danger before it occurs. “Come on then,” he rumbles to the unconscious human, “Let’s get you somewhere safe.” 

He only hopes it’ll be a lot less frightened when it next awakens. 


End file.
